On the third day that Platt watched the isolated lodge, he got the chance he needed. The smith left, carrying a pack and a hunting crossbow.
Even so, Platt waited an hour before he risked leaving his hiding place in the gorse at the edge of the clearing. So long as he was sober, the spy—the exile—the outlaw—was cautious as a fox. Platt had been sober perforce for most of the past three years; and, cautious, he had made sure he was alone on the occasions he had stolen enough liquor to get drunk.
The tendons of Platt's legs complained when he got up. He carefully walked the stiffness out of them in the forest before he attempted the hundred meters of clear area surrounding the lodge. If challenged, he would claim to be a wanderer and lost; the first true, the second very nearly true, for he'd had no idea he would find a dwelling this deep in the forest.
There had been an incident a month before, and the householders had hunted him with dogs. Platt had moved fast, because it was his life at stake, and he had deliberately struck off into the wastes; habitation meant support for those chasing and no shelter for their quarry. By the time Platt had lost the pursuit, he had also lost all but the barest notion of his whereabouts.
In the empty nights, with his belt tied to a branch to prevent him falling from his squirrel-nook in a pine tree, Platt had time to reflect on the fact that his life had long ago lost all purpose.
The clearing was a carpet of pine straw near the trees, bare earth as Platt neared the lodge. He had decided to go to the door opposite the one from which the smith had left. The outlaw stepped lightly, careful not to stir the ground cover or leave footprints in the dirt—which fortunately was dry.
Platt's head moved only the slight amount that an honest traveler would look around as he approached haven in the wilderness. His eyes flicked constantly ahead and to the sides, and his ears strained to hear the squeal of a crossbow being cocked behind him.
The smith looked like a powerful man, but the real proof of his strength lay in the size of the crossbow he carried—and cocked with a lever, not a windlass.
But the big man had no reason to believe that his lodge was being watched. It was only chance that Platt had decided to follow the faint trail from the spring at the head of this valley. He'd thought it might be an animal track along which he could set snares to supplement the nuts and berries which had sustained him since he fled.
The lodge had been a surprise. Platt dropped from instinct. It was a hot, still day and the doors in the gable ends were open. The outlaw could see directly down the long room.
Platt could also see wonders of which he had never dreamed, not even when he strutted around the royal court secure in his position and his cunning. Platt was third cousin to King Hermann—
But the child's father had been kin to the king as well; and because Platt had been drunk, he hadn't murdered the witness after he raped her.
"Hello the house," Platt called, too softly to be heard any distance into the forest. The smith's pack had implied a long trek, but Platt never took needless risks.
When he was sober.
The latch string was rawhide, old and cracked. No one had used this door in years.
"Hello?" Platt repeated. He teased the latch open carefully to keep the string from parting.
What had been wonders to the outlaw watching from a distance were unbelievable when he stood within the lodge. They lighted themselves, some of them, and the intricate motions of the rest were like a dream of a god's palace. Platt began to shiver with anticipation and—for the first time in three years—hope.
With this to offer King Hermann. . . .
Platt opened the door only wide enough for his thin body to slip through like a mouse squeezing into a cupboard. He looked around in amazement. Half of the devices were beyond his ability to guess their purpose.
In every sweep, Platt's eyes paused at the far door through which the smith might at any moment return.
The moving spirals that lighted the room hung in the air without any physical support. Platt's long knife probed beneath them, hoping to find a wire thinner than hair or a crystal column that passed light as the air itself did.
Nothing. Perhaps there was a support overhead, attached to the ceiling . . . but in the midst of so many marvels, it became easier to accept the truth of the inexplicable.
There were three bed closets. Platt froze as he considered the implications, but instinct assured the outlaw that the lodge was empty though he had seen only one man leave it.
A battlesuit stood open before the nearest closet. Aided by the artificial light overhead, Platt peered at the suit. It was not painted. After a moment's examination, the outlaw realized that paint on armor of this quality would be like paint on a knife blade—defilement, not decoration.
His fingers ran over the glass-smooth joints of the finest battlesuit he had ever seen. Even the mechanical connections were perfect: though the suit was unoccupied and cold, the frontal plate swung as easily as if the hinges were balanced on jewels.
Platt breathed very softly. Many of the articles of the smith's craft were unique; and, because there was nothing with which to compare them, some of Hermann's courtiers would be unable to see their value.
But all warriors understood battlesuits. Everyone would see the supernally high quality of this suit.
He started to leave then, because he would gain only further amazement by staying—and Platt, even cunning, grasping Platt, had been bludgeoned to awe by the wonders he had already seen. When the shadow of his body moved, a mirror winked from between the battlesuit's legs.
The outlaw bent down, intrigued more by the placement than by the object itself. He raised the little mirror, though the caution that kept him alive against the odds was screaming that he must leave, that the lodge's owner might be anywhere—
The smith's face stared out of the mirror's surface.
Platt screamed like a rabbit as the snare tightens. He spun with his knife thrusting, knowing that its blade was keen enough to shave; knowing also that a man of the smith's size and strength would snap the intruder's neck like a twig even after being disemboweled.
Platt was alone in the lodge.
The outlaw picked up the mirror again from where terror had flung it. It had not been damaged by its skid along the puncheons—but now it was only a mirror which reflected Platt's terrified face.
But it had shown the smith—
As soon as Platt thought of him, the smith's image filled the metal surface again. He was trudging forward stolidly against a background of tree boles. His crossbow was in his arms because it would interfere with his back if he slung it, but he had not bothered to cock the weapon.
The smith was several kilometers away from his lodge, but Platt was watching him.
The outlaw hugged the mirror to his breast for a moment, feeling in the object's hard outline the certainty of his own return to society. Then, cautious even in triumph, he set the mirror back where he had found it.
Platt latched the door behind him carefully as he left—for the time being—the lodge and the objects of wonderful craftsmanship within it.